


bird-bones, gilded in solid gold

by orphan_account



Series: Kinktober 2019 [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 12:29:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20874227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: V doesn’t know whether to sob from relief or from shame. Because he gets to keep his dirty little secret, sure, but Dante.Cares.





	bird-bones, gilded in solid gold

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 2: Body Worship  
This one. Got away from me a little bit.  
Maybe Vaguely Related To Day One.

V is. Tired. 

Physically, of course-- for someone only a few weeks old, he’s been doing an exhausting amount of moving. Constant fighting means that his energy is near always scraping rock bottom, to the point that even keeping Griffon out drags against V’s skin like sandpaper. And on top of all of that, V is only human. Enhanced a bit, maybe, by Vergil’s still-lingering hold in V’s half of the soul, but the scrapes and bruises and sluggishly-healing cuts still sting something fierce as he finally slumps on the bench in the back of Nico’s van. 

And it’s hard not to feel jealous, glancing over to where Dante is sprawled out in his own seat, bloody and filthy but still somehow looking  _ radiant _ with energy despite their day’s labor. Demonic, and  _ whole _ , and V bites his tongue and looks away.

He can see a few new hairline cracks racing down his hands, is the worst part. They aren’t far enough along yet to start flaking when he flexes. It’s only a matter of time, though, and until then V knows this is just a herald of restless sleep and wounds going unhealed.

V is. Dying. 

The thought seizes tight in V’s throat so quickly he almost chokes on it, a low, wounded sound that he swallows before it can rise above a whisper. Dante’s head snaps around, but V has his face pressed into Griffon’s feathers already, forcing his breathing into something level as the panic beneath his skin threatens to push its way through the cracks. 

He’s dying. V always knew that-- he’s half a soul, after all, in a body never meant to last. But it’s one thing to know, and another thing to  _ feel _ , the way his body is crumbling so slowly before his very eyes. The likelihood that he won’t survive to reach Urizen is ever-rising. V’s hands tighten in Griffon’s feathers, and, though he’s sure it must hurt, the bird turns its head enough to run its beak through V’s hair. 

“Workin’ yourself too hard, always workin’ yourself too hard, what do I always tell you? You don’t have to work yourself so hard,” Griffon grumbles, low and gruff but. Caring. Beneath. V can feel it in his chest, the smallest spark of kindness that V scrambles to keep ahold of. “Why’dya even hire these goons if you’re still doin’ half the work, huh?”

V laughs, and it sounds  _ wet _ , half-torn from his chest, and he hopes it doesn’t sound half as painful to other people as it sounded to his own ears. There’s the distant murmur of a conversation that V doesn’t pay too much mind to-- Nico and Nero, it sounds like, and maybe Dante. Either they’re going to try to travel through the night, and V is going to sleep back here, or they’re going to park the van on the side of the road, and they’re all going to sleep back here, and either way V doesn’t imagine his back is going to be particularly pleased with him in the morning. 

Hopefully they’ll stop. V knows that time is of the essence here, but. He really needs to stretch out. He can’t do that while Nico is driving. Or, he can, if he wants to get dumped onto the floor. He’d really rather not get dumped on the floor. 

Someone-- Dante-- settles into the seat beside V. V begrudgingly cracks one eye open. They’ve a standing agreement, to leave each other to their own devices post-fight, to calm down on their own before they start butting heads again. Dante had best a good reason for sitting almost uncomfortably close, hip against V’s hip, grinning as he takes up all the space he pleases. 

“Nico’s gonna find us a place to sleep for the night,” Dante drawls. “Somewhere with a bed.”

“Dibs,” V says, because he’s too tired to be smarmy, and turns his face back into Griffon’s chest as Dante throws his head back and laughs. It’s a bright sound,  _ cheerful _ despite the ever-encroaching darkness, and V marvels at it as his cheeks flush pink. Dante is a marvel. Which. Is a thought that V is going to take to his discorporation. 

It takes a bit before Nico finds them a place that looks decent. Neither V nor Dante moves-- V, because he can’t, he tucked himself in the corner by the back door because it’s his spot and he’s comfortable back here, but now that he’s all but boxed in by Dante’s bulk he realizes the folly of his ways. Dante stays put, because… Well, V doesn’t claim to know why Dante does anything. What V can say is that Dante stays close, arm thrown over the back of the seat behind V’s shoulders as he flips through a magazine, occasionally flicking at Griffon’s tailfeathers or bracing V’s neck when Nico hits a demon with a little too much enthusiasm.

What V can say is that Dante’s hands are very warm. Dante, himself, is very warm, but his hand in particular seems to scald V’s skin with every idle brush and firm touch. It’s  _ maddening _ , in the best of ways. V is torn every time between leaning back into the touch and jerking away from the brand, except he doesn’t do either when Dante’s quick reactions are the only thing keeping his head from bouncing off the ceiling. Eventually Dante’s hand just. Rests there. On the nape of V’s neck, warmth diffusing slowly through V’s skin and settling into his bones. 

V. Frowns, trying to shrug off the touch as he half-turns in his seat. “Dante--”

The van takes a turn a bit too harsh, and V hisses in a breath as he braces himself to hit the wall, Griffon squawking as he flares his wings and digs his claws into the seat. Dante is fast, though, enough to grab V, tucking V against his chest, arms cushioning the impact even as Nico slams the van to a stop. 

“We’re here!” Nico shouts, laughing and batting at Griffon as he scrambles after her and follows her out of the van.

“You tryin’ to get us killed back there, woman?! How’d you even pass your driver’s test, they had to have realized that a maniac like you should never be--”

V lets out a shuddering breath, grimacing at the way he can feel the strain up and down his back and around his ribs. His heart is pounding rabbit-quick against the inside of his chest, and it sets the tempo for the deafening drum of his blood through his ears. Dante is  _ warm _ , like curling up against a space heater. In contrast, V feels frozen, thawing, ice in his veins that flows quick now that it is warming. The sensation is not  _ unpleasant, _ for all V squirms to be free of it, and of Dante, but the  _ implication  _ of it has V desperate for some distance. 

It is almost surprising, when V is set free without a fight, given the dark look Dante aims out the window of the van. Dark and  _ possessive _ , in a way that sends a thrill through V's core. It’s half a thought to reach up and drag Dante’s attention over. His beard is rough and wiry under V’s hand-- it doesn’t grow as fast as V thought it would.

“Are you alright?” V asks. 

Dante snorts. “Nico needs to learn how to fuckin’ drive,” he grumbles, but turns his face into V’s touch, nuzzling into his palm. Like a flower opening to the sun, V can feel Dante’s smile against the thin skin of his wrist, then the edge of teeth as Dante’s smile becomes a grin, his eyes opening just a sliver, that gem-like blue catching V’s gaze and holding it. There is an intensity there, an emotion that V cannot name. Or. Doesn’t want to. “Are you alright?”

There’s no lying to Dante. V wouldn’t, even if he could. He bites his tongue instead. Flicks his eyes down to the blotch of black blood drying on Dante’s collar. Not blood, ichor. It’s going to be a pain to wash out. 

Dante sighs, almost.  _ Disappointed _ . But whatever he is gearing up to say is interrupted by a heavy thunk against the side of the van.

“Last out gets to bring in the stuff!” Nero shouts, nearly devilish in his glee. V tries not to be irritated-- or, at least, he does his best not to show it. It’s not like Nero knew he was interrupting anything. 

It seems that Dante has no such qualms, however, growling and bitching as V closes his eyes and tries to find his center. His knees don’t feel weak, but they do ache something fierce, and he knows that his back is going to pop horribly the moment he tries to straighten up. Which will be pleasant, right up until it is painful. But, also, unavoidable, no matter how often V wishes it were not so.

A hand slides around his wrist, and something smooth and cool is eased into his hand. V blinks his eyes open-- Dante’s hand is calloused, but gentle as his expression as he eases V upright and out of the back of the van. 

“Better go claim that room,” Dante murmurs, half joking and completely full of care, “before those two get it.”

…

The building Nico has picked for them is a two-story affair, with a garage big enough to fit the van, a blessedly-stocked pantry, and three rooms total-- two upstairs, and what looks to have been a half-converted office downstairs. The bed is a twin, and between it and the desk and the filing cabinets the room feels rather cramped, but there is an attached bathroom, and V doesn’t particularly feel up to braving the stairs. Besides, Griffon seems to be enjoying tearing up the desk like the menace he is, and V doesn’t particularly feel inclined to put a stop to it. A little chaos is good for the soul. 

He should be helping unpack what they need from the van to make this place safe for the night, or poking around the pantry to see what might be worth making for dinner before Nico gets it in her head that she’s a half-decent cook again. Instead, V does neither, meandering into the bathroom, picking at the lacing of his coat. There’s still running water, by some miracle-- V can’t tell if it’s going to warm up or not, and the shower is small, but at least he is going to be clean, and that’s better than nothing. 

There are hairline cracks across most of his body, only barely hidden in the swirls of black that decorate V’s skin. He can feel them as he washes himself, when his fingers catch and trip over rifts and rises that shouldn’t be there. Where his jeans have rubbed against the wings of his hips have taken the worst of it, bits and flakes of skin missing, revealing a murky void beneath. Homunculi, V thinks as he presses against one of the black patches and hissing at the flare of pain that follows, are not built to last, even when they are in possession of the entirety of a soul. 

Griffon lets out a squawk just before someone raps on the doorframe. V doesn’t even bother to turn, or to shut the water off. If it were Nero or Nico, Griffon would have stopped them before they made it even a step into the bedroom. And, though it is surely a most horrible mistake, V  _ trusts _ Dante. Enough to let Dante get his teeth into his throat. More than enough to let Dante watch as he bathes. 

Though, to V’s surprise, Dante makes no effort to join him in the shower. Any other day, V might drag this out, be a tease. A  _ minx _ . But right now he’s more interested in the bed waiting for him beyond the shadow of Dante that blocks the doorway. So he washes quickly, if thoroughly, and tries not to think too hard about how, even in the near-darkness, he can feel the weight of Dante’s gaze on his skin. 

He helps himself to the towel in the cabinet for the sake of the bedsheets, rather than modesty, though not being able to read Dante’s expression in the darkness does make V a bit uneasy. V does not have the benefit of improved darkvision as Dante and Nero do, and the view from Griffon’s eyes only gives V information about the back of Dante’s head, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the trim cut of his waist and the delectable shape of--

“When were you going to tell us.” 

V freezes at the rumble of Dante’s growl, white-knuckling the towel around his shoulders as though the scrap of fabric will protect him from needle teeth and razor claws. Excuses and apologies catch in his throat-- it’s not like he was overtly  _ lying _ , he gave away plenty of hints as to his origins, they just never asked, and it’s not as though it’s going to matter in a few days time any--

Dante digs a thumb into the void, and V’s knees give out from underneath them as the pain. Arms are around him in an instant, cradling him against Dante’s chest, apologies and assurances murmured into V’s hair, and. 

Oh. 

_ Oh. _

V doesn’t know whether to sob from relief or from  _ shame _ . Because he gets to keep his dirty little secret, sure, but Dante.

_ Cares _ . 

A far crueler trick than any lie V could have possibly concocted. Because Dante’s heart is a delicate thing, bird-bones, gilded in solid gold, and V is a hammer, a wrecking ball, an uncaring hand crushing that treasure within its grip. And V would rather  _ die _ , would willingly crumble into ash here, than cause Dante that kind of pain. V curls in on himself, hating the way his body won’t let him hide the way he wants to.

Dante takes him to bed. Lays him out like a feast before the ravenous hordes, careful, careful, pushing V’s hands away every time he tries to hide. Runs his hands over every motif etched into V’s skin-- Shadow curled on V’s stomach, Nightmare that reaches around V’s side, Griffon, the traitorous little bastard who’s gone and returned to V to give them something like privacy, pressed into V’s throat and chest. 

Shoulder. Collarbone. Up the column of V’s neck, under the curve of V’s chin, the hollow behind V’s ear-- the red marks Dante sucks into V’s skin will darken into proper bruises by morning, V is sure. V does his best to turn his head away, eyes squeezed shut against the tears the bead at his eyes, because he doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve Dante, doesn’t deserve the soft kindness that V is being showered in. 

“Easy, V,” Dante murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of V’s mouth. Wraps V in a loose fist, other hand pinning V’s hips to the mattress. As though V could fight this. As though V would  _ want _ to fight this. 

He should. 

He doesn’t. 

Because there’s liquid pleasure in V’s veins and Dante’s body pressed against his own, Dante’s mouth sucking bruises into V’s every sensitive spot that V will spend far too much time in the morning working to heal. Dante’s cock resting heavy against V’s hip as he brings V off with patience that V would never have attributed to him before. There’s something cruelly meticulous about the way Dante picks V apart, the same way one might pick every leg off an insect before finally putting it out of its misery. 

Like putting a puzzle together, piece by piece. Dante kisses him, sweet as honeycomb and sugarcane, and V. Shatters. Comes apart. Comes together, with Dante at his center, filling up the cracks of his half-soul. V whines when Dante keeps going until the pleasure builds into something close to pain before slowly, softly bringing V back down again.

V lays there, panting, the last of his energy slipping like sand through his fingers. He should probably get up soon, before things get sticky and unpleasant, but Dante is resting gently on top of him, a touch heavier than comfortable, and though V struggles to breathe against the weight V is almost. Content. V couldn’t wiggle free if he wanted to, even if his body would obey his commands. 

“Stay,” Dante whispers into the hollow of V’s throat, almost too soft to hear, and V knows he doesn’t just mean for the moment. For the night. For the week. For the time until Urizen’s defeat. 

He couldn’t lie to Dante if he wanted, so V drags his arms up until he holds Dante in a loose hug, gentle as he knows how, desperate for forgiveness for acts he’s yet to commit.


End file.
